


Stages

by wrongstation



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrongstation/pseuds/wrongstation
Summary: Set during Chris's season of American Idol. Ryan can't deny the attraction, and they fumble their way through the stages of dealing with that.





	

The first time it happens, it's nothing. It's a peck, nothing more and nothing less. It was impulsive and stupid and you wouldn't have done it at all except for the fact that you'd felt his cheek press against yours when he hugged you. But it's just a peck. You're still you, still Ryan, and you can't be doing this. Feeling this. It's nothing.

The second time it happens, you ask him to do it. "Kiss me?" you ask, already wrapped in his arms, already sure that he's not going to say no. He does as you ask, and no one sees you but the trees and the ducks. He's scared, at least he feels that way, and he kisses you like you're both going to break but it's nice. It's nice to be handled with care for once, to not feel like a ragdoll being tossed about for entertainment. You hold his hand on the way back to the car, and when you start the engine, the music picks up right where you'd left off. You feel good for the first time in a long time as you sing along badly, making him laugh and press his body up against the window, as far away from you as possible. "How does it feel to know that I love you, baby?" you sing in your best (or worst) falsetto, laughing along with him and wondering why it took you so long to realize it wasn't nothing. Chris Richardson is far from nothing.

The third time it happens, you know he's going home the next night. You feel it from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet, and while you don't think it's very fair, you know that fair doesn't go hand in hand with your job. You stand in front of each other and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth awkwardly, his fingers hooked in his belt loops and his eyes dancing everywhere around you. "Nice suit," he finally says, and it isn't until he leans down to quickly kiss you that you realize why he was looking around so much in the first place. Trouble, you know this is trouble, but you're too far gone to turn back. It's only your job. It's only your life. You could only lose it all, but he has a way of making the rest of your world fade to background noise and losing it all doesn't register as a blip on your radar. "Nice belt," you bat back, nudging his hand aside so you can hook your index finger in his belt loop, looking over your shoulder before quickly backing him into a corner and kissing him. Too quick, too rushed, too nervous, but more exhilarating than you ever thought possible. Suddenly, the possibility of losing it all is part of the thrill, and you try not to visibly shiver from side stage while he sings about riding steel horses. You linger too long on his arm while delivering his numbers and your voice falters because he won't stop looking at you. Simon's practically seething from down below and you continue your speech on autopilot, but you're still thinking about his eyes, even as you step off the stage.

The fourth time it happens, the alarm clock is still buzzing and you're still a little drunk. He's in your bed, but it's okay because nothing happened. It's nothing. You're only halfway dressed and it's four o'clock in the morning and you have to be at work in an hour, but it's okay. Watching him wake up – even through your cloudy vision and pounding head – is a first that you'd kind of like to remember. The buzzing reminds you that you need to turn off the alarm and get out of bed. You have work and he has press because you were right. You were right and he's leaving and that's why you're still a little drunk because there are five empty bottles of wine downstairs and a few shots of tequila in your bloodstream. Your timing sucks and the only thing you want is to turn off the light and pull him into your arms, but he's looking at you with mild panic and the only thing you can do is kiss him. Morning breath and all, because he's leaving and you have no idea when you'll see him again. You're not about to cry, those can't be tears behind your eyes, so you get up and stumble blindly into the bathroom to get yourself ready for work. It's not nothing, but you're pretending it is. 

The fifth time it happens, everything has changed. Everything feels so much different for so many reasons. You let people get into your head. You let them take what was innocent and fragile and turn it into something you hated to think about. You spent weeks with knots in your stomach until the second you see him and you're alone, and suddenly you can't breathe because he's holding you like he did the first time it happened, and pliers couldn't pry your lips from his. Ellen watches in the car on the way to the afterparty. Watches him, watches you, watches the way you react to him, the way you keep glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "It's nothing," you say when she pulls you aside by the arm, and you can tell from her look that she doesn't believe you. You wouldn't believe you either. This time, he's the one to watch you wake up, and you think to yourself that you really have to spend a night together that isn't a weeknight, because the quick goodbyes are getting old.

The sixth time it happens, you don't know what hit you except the wall. He's got you trapped and the kid gloves you've been handling each other with are off. It isn't about innocence and taking it slow, it's about hands and mouths and hips, and you aren't going to be satisfied until you're _satisfied_. He doesn't need a map to know the right places to touch you, just like he doesn't need to be led up to your bedroom anymore to be able to find it. You have no idea where half your clothes are and you have zero ability to care, because for once he's staying over without the alarm clock being set. It may be nothing, but you feel him sigh into your neck once he's asleep, and you watch him for a while without feeling too creepy. You stroke the outline of his face with your knuckles and sweep your thumb over the place where his eyelashes meet his cheek. He'd never let you look at him like this when he was awake, so you do it now. You do it now because he's there. Because you can. Because he's yours. 

The seventh time it happens is the morning after the sixth. After his hands still and the last chord of the guitar has been played. It happens the second his hand flattens against the instrument and he looks at you the way he always does – a hopeful need for validation and reaction. He's so much like you. He wants to please and you want to please him, and your heart is so full in that moment that you feel kind of stupid. You touch his face and lean in, your mouth open, ready to speak. You know what you want to say, you know what you feel, but all you can do is close your mouth again and shake your head, smiling as you press a short, gentle kiss to his lips. "Thank you," is what you say instead, letting your hand drop. 

You realize that the problem isn't that you've been making something out of nothing. It's that you've been making something into nothing.


End file.
